I’d rather not think that we can celebrate love only once a year, at the behest of Hallmark and other commercial entities who would harp otherwise. Ev and I have been guilty of standing before a card counter and reading some of the offerings, and saying, “If I were buying one, it would be this one!” Often it would be a silly one, or one committing such purple prose nonsense that it makes us laugh. We don’t buy valentine’s day cards.
Rather, I like to think of commitment. My husband to me, with his sometimes romantic moments, but usually just being himself, taking care of me, providing for me, opening my car door, allowing me time to write, his forgiveness when I’ve needed it most, his loyalty, his dependability, his absolute love for our children, his steadiness, his logical mind which offsets my right-brained flightiness, and his help in running our home. He’s a keeper.
For me, I like to think like Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes in her precious Gift from the Sea. Here’s what she says about woman, and I’m one of those. “She want perpetually to spill herself away. All the instinct as a woman–the eternal nourisher of children, of men, of society–demands that she give. Her time, her energy, her creativeness drain out into these channels if there is any chance, any leak. Traditionally we are taught and instrinctiely we long, to give where it is needed–and immediately. Eternally, woman spills herself away into driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim.”
And so, in a long marriage, my valentine’s role has changed. We don’t need the sappy stuff. Each other suffices and fulfills.
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